


Daffodalia [1]

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After the Aintpocalypse (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a bastard (Good Omens), Book Omens Week, Canon Compliant, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Morning After, Other, Rated T for Overuse of Footnotes, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Written for Book Omens Week.Crowley and Aziraphale drink quite a bit, this time for pleasure rather than for the stress, and fall asleep on the sofa in the back room of the bookshop.They wake up with terrible hangovers.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 149
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	1. Sleeping On Cloud 9

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marleenam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marleenam/gifts), [Collections10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Collections10/gifts).



> Thank you to Marleenam for the prompt!
> 
> Prompt: drunk cuddling and fall asleep and are hungover and argue about who is going to make coffee because they are idiots and forget that they can make miracles... Idiots Fighting Over Who Is Going To Make Coffee. They are on a sofa and another one falls to the floor after a desperate fight over a blanket. 
> 
> #bookomensweek

[1] Daffodils, or Narcissus flowers, mean “Egotism, Formality” in the language of flowers, but are also closely related to a Greek word meaning “intoxication” (which is narcotic). Dalia is a name that in Arabic stems from the word for grapevine and in Hebrew from the word for [tip of a] branch, especially that of a grapevine or an olive tree.

* * *

Aziraphale smiled, eyes closed, and cuddled up against Crowley on the couch he’d been previously sure was too small for the both of them to comfortably fit on. He was inordinately pleased with the couch for not being so, and the couch was rather chuffed at the silent, but still angelic, praise being thought about it. Crowley had threatened it telepathically and was rather glad it didn’t fight back against any Entirely Reasonable Expectations™ and had, in fact, gathered it’s couch-y wits about it and widened accordingly. That being said, the couch, and their positions, were exceedingly comfortable.

Both the angel and demon had been drinking. It wasn’t for any particular reason so much as they enjoyed being in each other’s company but hadn’t quite gotten into the habit of not needing excuses for it even after being so thoroughly ignored by their respective sides— after hundreds of years, learning not to look over one’s shoulders was quite difficult indeed. So they drank and shared stories about the couple of weeks[2] they’d been apart, taking inventories and passing out miracles of both hellish and heavenly origins now that they no longer had quotas to meet or budgets to stick to.[3]

* * *

[2] Since they are rather immortal—not the unkillable kind, of course, just the long-lived kind— they have a somewhat shaky grasp of how much Time is considered long. 

For the best comparison, it’s easiest to assume they tend to think of a Standard Human Year in the same way a Human might think of half a week. That is to say, not very long and not entirely unreasonable to not see someone for if you know they’ve been busy, but certainly long enough to start pining again if you’re in love. This, however, also means that Crowley is 100% a flash bastard with a hot new hobby or wardrobe every weekend to all the other immortals in his acquaintance.

[3] Crowley had quite a few quotas to meet that he often found difficult to reach with how humanity rarely needed much of a push in the first place (hence the reasons he took credit for them nonetheless, but the paperwork for the actual Demonic Intervention Miracles, or DIM, was Hellish. [3.1]). His budget for DIMs was approved ad infinitum in part because it was the only thing he’d asked for in recognition for his work Up Top with the Tree Debacle and also because Dagon decided not to bother dealing with requisition forms every 12 days on the dot for miracles to keep him from discorporation. Truly it was more work to give him a new corporation to his specifications than it was to keep him from coming back to Hell whining and complaining. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was constrained in the other direction. He had quotas to meet and rarely had trouble with them as he was, in fact, a divine being of Love who liked to spread that Love as much as possible. He did, of course, have a bit of a terrible habit of tending towards unnecessary expenditures of Heavenly Ordained Enterprises, or HOE, like an extra marshmallow [3.2] or pulling a street urchin out of the way of a run-away cart without putting himself in self-sacrificing harm’s way. 

[3.1] Pun intended, of course, because puns were the lowest form a wit. So low, one might say it was from Be-Low

[3.2] Gabriel had always given him a pass on re-warming his hot chocolate, though not tea or even coffee, as the word ‘hot’ was in the very name, and therefore must be kept that way, per Her will. Even if he didn’t quite know what chocolate was or why Aziraphale seemed to be around it so often to keep it warm.

* * *

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, voice light and pleasant, as he dragged his fingertips through the lanky demon’s hair and down the back of his neck, “Have you heard about bees? They've got dances for maps. ”

Crowley snorted in response, shifted a little, but otherwise doesn’t move in Aziraphale’s arms. He was far too comfortable wrapped up in the warmth of an angel’s embrace and far too lazy besides. They were both also far too drunk to manage to untangle themselves from one another with any level of coordination. Best just stay like this, simpler that way, of course.

“Bees?” Crowley grinned. His voice canted up in mock incredulousness, nuzzling his face against Aziraphale’s chest, thoroughly sozzled. “ ‘Ve heard abou’ ‘em, yeah. S’what’s– what’s to do?”

Aziraphale blinked, a little slow and confused. “What’s about them, m’ dear? They're indoub– indo– very much needed! For grapes! And fruits, and pears.” Aziraphale’s face turned morose and tears gathered in his eyes. “A–and they’re _dying_!” He hiccuped a sob in the way drunk people do, sad enough to sound upset but not quite fully capable of processing most things, let alone complex emotions, to start crying in earnest about it. 

“Shh!” Crowley shushed, startled by the sob, and clumsily patted at Aziraphale’s face with his free hand. It was more of a light smack really. The other was trapped underneath Aziraphale’s back, so, while rather useless in this instance, he wasn’t entirely inclined to be upset about it since it meant their chests were pressed together by necessity. 

“S’ok! S’ok, Angel! Adam's set it to rights–a bit–and you can use you’re miracles or somethin’, jus’ yanno, maybe make some more flowers and clovers. No one c’n be mad at you fer that, yeah?” Crowley panicked while attempting to sound calm.[4] 

Aziraphale just hiccuped a few more sobs, face still dry even though his eyes were a bit on the blurry side. “Flowers? You know them?”

“Yeah, s’fine, Angel, shh. I’ll get you flowers, yeah? With bees in ‘em.”

“You– you will?” Aziraphale gasped, pulling Crowley into an even tighter embrace,[5] which he happily melted into. 

“Mhm, should do,” Crowley muttered, breathing in deeply once Aziraphale’s arms relaxed around him again and closing his eyes. His mouth opened to take in the scent he was surrounded by, smelling of Aziraphale’s old barbershop cologne, wine and old books, and something that was uniquely Aziraphale.[6] 

* * *

[4] He was rather terrible at that. Rarely did one meet someone who was more obviously panicked than Crowley, who sometimes looked panicked even when he was, in all actuality, entirely fine. Must be his face. 

[5] It really was for the best Crowley didn’t need to breathe, even if he liked to. And that he had enough ribs and vertebrae to displace all the excess force in Aziraphale’s arms. The angel had been a Guardian for a reason, no matter how much he liked to play at being soft and harmless. Crowley never forgot, least of all like this, and even though as a demon he should be frightened by it, Aziraphale’s strength had always felt like a warm promise at his back, something that felt like safety.

[6] He smelt like light, pure and unexplainable, he also smelled like comfort, which was just as unexplainable as smelling like light but it felt quite a lot like Love. Which Crowley might admit to, one day, but only if he was cornered and only ever to Aziraphale himself. But then again, Crowley could be biased, and simply thought that Love smelled a lot like Aziraphale, instead of the reverse. He’d also be hard-pressed to ever admit that thought either.

* * *

Assuaged, Aziraphale wiggled a little further into the couch and got comfortable, adjusting Crowley to lay against him until his head was on Aziraphale’s shoulder instead of his chest and Aziraphale could lean over to pluck the wine bottle up by its neck from the table. Crowley snapped lazily and blinked once, slowly, at the blanket covering the two of them. That hadn’t been what he had meant to do, but it worked well enough. He’d _meant_ to bring their wine glasses close enough to reach without getting up, but what the hell, drinking from the bottle was good enough. 

“It all comes, I suppose," Aziraphale decided, "It all comes of liking honey so much.”[7]

* * *

[7] Aziraphale was a fan of _Winnie The Pooh_ by A.A.Milne and this happened to be one of his favorite lines, spoken by the silly bear himself.

* * *

“Wot?” Crowley muttered, eyeing the wine bottle held by precarious fingers. His hand shot out and snatched the wine from Aziraphale’s hands, or rather, tried to. Aziraphale was still just enough sober to pull it out of Crowley’s reach with an ease that belied his soft exterior.

“And the bees are... Just lovely! Ah, the sticky stuff they make,” Aziraphale paused and smiled beatifically, “Honey.” He nodded to himself as if the word was hard to remember and he was rather proud of having done so.

“Yes, dear?” Crowley mumbled groggily, perking up at the endearment which had only recently become anything approaching common.

“Oh no, not you. That bees make,” Aziraphale replied with a slow blink, looking down at Crowley and taking a moment to drag his eyes over where they seemed to fold into one another under the softening curves of the blanket. It was difficult to be anything but pleased at the thought, so he didn’t try.

Crowley harrumphed and grumbled under his breath, reaching out for the bottle again though this time Aziraphale let him take it. In a fit of pique at _not_ having been called a particularly sweet endearment he shotgunned the rest of the alcohol, letting it all slide down his throat with no care for either swallowing or breathing. 

Nights in Soho were never dull, nor were the streets ever quite empty. Aziraphale had chosen the location of his shop well before it had become a well-known gayborhood.[8] There was a sort of safety in the anonymity afforded by the press of people who had something to hide from everyone else at large, and there was something to be said for the fact that they could each make their excuses to be here. Aziraphale for spreading his Unconditional Love for Humanity amongst those who were poorly off and neglected, and Crowley for settling in the depths of houses of sin and encouraging any who entered them to partake. 

Crowley closed his eyes and nuzzled subtly[9] back into Aziraphale’s chest, fingers playing with the neck of the bottle hanging carelessly, but empty, in his hand off the side of the couch. It felt timeless, like all at once the Earth stood still in awe of these small, precious moments and like centuries could pass by in the blink of an eye and still Crowley might wake up here, surrounded and safe in an angel’s arms. There were streetlamps twinkling through dusty bookshop windows like stars through poorly thatched roofs and they partied like it was 1999, [10] which is to say, sit and drink with a Hereditary Enemy-cum-Adversary who was secretly a friend. Only now they made no protestations for the look of it, cared not for how they might seem wrapped up around the other, and each of them bolstered by hands not his own. 

* * *

[8] Crowley secretly thought that it was because of Aziraphale’s presence. He tended to attract those in need, especially of the queer variety, with his Angelic projecting. As in, he projected quite a bit of Unconditional Love out there and the people who needed it most found it. Even if he didn’t like them in his shop much at all.

[9] It wasn’t. But Aziraphale didn’t mind.

[10] BCE

* * *

“Know wha’?” Crowley mumbled, overcome, just a little, by the dusty nostalgia inspired by the shop, and let the empty bottle of wine drop to the floor.

“What?” Aziraphale replied, raising a hand to stroke his fingertips gently down the back of Crowley’s neck. The demon made a sound, the sort which human throats were incapable of, but since he was a demon he had occultish vocal chords on a separate plane to add into the mix. To human ears, it sounded a bit like "Hrng."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him, bemused at Crowley’s current inability to string together noises into words. 

"It's just, a bit like, oozes."

"Ooze, Crowley?" The other eyebrow joined the first, halfway up the angel's forehead.

"Yeah, just, _congealed_ , you know?" 

“What is, dear?” 

“You. Us. Yanno.”

Aziraphale did his best to hide a smile. "To be clear, you are comparing our _relationship_ to allu-- alluvium?" [11]

"Y–yeah, tha’s it. 'S just, like, fertile. 'S lots of things to grow in it. An' it congeals in my chest. Gets heavy... in a nice way." Crowley mumbled and buried his face in Aziraphale's chest to hide the incandescent blush high on his cheeks. Crowley’s eyes slipped closed and he relaxed in Aziraphale’s arms, any thoughts of danger or nerves so far away they might as well be in another galaxy. He quickly fell asleep in the way of the much practiced. 

"Ah. I think much the same, my dear." Aziraphale smiled down at the demon laying on him and carded fingers through his dark hair, luxuriating in the gentle warmth laid atop him and the boneless weight of Crowley on his chest. "So much the same."

* * *

[11] Aziraphale thought this was actually rather sweet. From Crowley, who hoarded and prized such things that might give his plants even less excuses to disappoint him (such as inadequate light and subpar soils), it was a rather beautiful compliment. Perhaps the ooze part hadn’t been meant that way, but then again, Crowley was a demon with a few demonic preconceived notions. In this case, it was that oozes were enjoyable. He particularly delighted in the ones that made rude noises when you squished them in your hands and gave to children to amuse themselves with.

* * *

Their breathing evened out and their eyelids grew heavy as they basked in the contentment of being well and truly ignored by every side but their own. Aziraphale breathed deeply in and out, indulging and reveling in such a simple human action, grounding him here on earth and held there firmly by the mass of a demon compressed into a corporeal body over his chest and legs. It felt like respite, something truly peaceful, and like there was finally, _finally_ , no longer need to stand guard.

Aziraphale rarely slept, but then again, Aziraphale rarely felt safe. 

But with Crowley so close, the heat of their bodies trapped by a soft, flannel blanket and the knowledge that by now no one would be looking in on them from Above or Below, Aziraphale relaxed and slipped into a pleasant slumber. They passed the night away, dreaming of all the things they liked best, and of each other.


	2. And The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the [Ducks and Dolphins AU by 10yrsy](https://10yrsyart.tumblr.com/tagged/dolphins_and_ducks_au/chrono) on tumblr for the inspo and looks of Aziraphale and Crowley in this Book Omens fic! They've done a lot of super cool work and art and it's so goddamn close to how I always imagined Aziraphale and Crowley in the books!
> 
> And special thanks to [wonderingpiper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderingpiper) for the french translations! And thanks to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock) for the beta!

The streetlamp stars, hazy through the windows of Aziraphale’s bookshop, softened as the dawn broke over the horizon, flooding the streets of London with a gentle light. Soho paused, only briefly, to take in a deep breath and begins to nurse its hangovers and then continues its lazy bustle. It was the kind of pause that can only be found in the corners of large cities, where the feeling of _somewhere to be_ permeates the bones and soul of the city itself but the residents at large are asleep or lethargic or indolent. 

The residents inside of a certain bookshop in Soho slept on until the sun was well above the horizon, shining merrily through dark windows, shafts of light pierced the darkness looking for all intents and purposes what humans imagined divinity to look like. Motes of dust hung in the air like galaxies and stars suspended in the void of space and tickled the noses of the two inhabitants as they breathed. 

Crowley groaned, nuzzling into the softness beneath him and hiding his eyes from the hateful sun threatening to shine through his eyelids. He licked his lips and groaned again in the back of his throat. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat and it was entirely, objectively _terrible._ Aziraphale stirred as well, hands fisting lightly in Crowley’s rumpled shirt. The angel’s sigh of pain rumbled in his chest and vibrated Crowley’s brain in his skull. Also quite unpleasant. 

Unpleasant enough for Crowley to fling himself off the couch, forgetting entirely that his legs were tangled up with Aziraphale’s and with the blanket over them, and landed shoulder-first on the floor. He groaned, low and loud, his legs below the knees still wrapped up in the blanket and a startled Aziraphale peering precariously over the edge in worry. 

"Crowley!" he admonished. "Be quieter." Aziraphale carefully closed his eyes again and laid a hand over his forehead, greatly regretting just how much the two of them had drunk. Enough to forget to sober up the night before and certainly enough to leave them fairly pickled even still. 

"Still a bit drunk?" Crowley asked, not bothering to move from what would surely be an uncomfortable contortion for any human in his position, his shoulders flush on the floor and hips twisted midair as they were leading up to tangled legs. 

"Mhm," Aziraphale responded, sounding rather upset about the fact his hand over his forehead still hadn't stopped the hangover but meant he would be unsteady on his feet as well, "You?" 

"Yeah." [12] They laid in their respective spots until the grandfather clock buried in books somewhere in the front room chimed noon. Crowley groaned at the noise and shimmied so he could pull himself up off the floor to shove his face into the sofa cushion and Aziraphale’s hip, contorting in odd ways so that his arms were wrapped around Aziraphale’s lap and his hips and legs were still caught up in the blanket halfway off the couch so that he was hanging off the edge somewhere around his middle. Crowley sighed at the near-utter blackness afforded to him. He sighed again at the soft touch of angelic fingertips on the back of his neck. 

“Coffee?” Aziraphale murmured, of a mind to make himself some tea as well. His eyes softened as he looked down at Crowley, whose face was pressed against the side of his hip, hiding from the world and reality at large. And then his head throbbed and he stifled a moan of pain and discomfort.

Crowley, hearing Aziraphale’s noise of mild-to-moderate distress, shot up from his place in between the angel’s side and the back of the couch. “No! Tea!” he crowed, immediately regretting the too-fast movement and the loudness of his own voice echoing in his head as his temples were squeezed with a band of iron. Rude, that. Aziraphale tried to chuckle at Crowley’s antics but was forced, instead, to press the palms of his hands into his eyes. The pressure there helped relieve the burning, dry feeling in them as well as lessen the feeling in the base of his skull, at least temporarily. 

“You don’t like my tea, my dear.” [13] Aziraphale murmured soothingly, hoping his own headache would dissipate as well. Alas, it didn’t work, but he did manage to twist and set his feet on the floor to sit up properly on the cushion rather than reclining so _brazenly_. This wasn’t Rome anymore, now was it? 

* * *

[12] Unfortunately, this was false. If they had still been drunk in any respect the hangover wouldn’t be so terribly bad. They might have also remembered that magic can, in fact, heal hangovers rather than simply prevent them.

[13] All Aziraphale kept in his kitchenette was a small selection of Breakfast teas and variants of Earl Grey tea, all of which were too bitter for Crowley’s tastes, but Aziraphale found it invigorating most days, and since it was black it could steep at a higher temperature without ruining the tea. Which meant he could forget about waiting for the water to cool once it had boiled before steeping the tea.

Crowley, of course, preferred gentler white and red teas as a matter of course.

* * *

Aziraphale shifting in his seat and setting his own feet on the floor left Crowley’s legs free–except for the blanket they were still wrapped up in–and the demon wobbled to a stand, using Aziraphale’s chest and shoulders as a pillar of support. Aziraphale, for his part, was quite good at sitting still and was a lovely thing to brace against as the angel was quite good at being said pillar of support every time he made a point to be helpful. 

He was not feeling particularly helpful this morning. Aziraphale shifted his shoulders to the side so that Crowley’s hand slipped off and the demon face-planted directly into the back of the sofa, unable to stop himself from tripping over the blanket underfoot. The softness of it suddenly turned traitor with the plush carpet below and providing absolutely no purchase at all. Crowley cried out in surprise and Aziraphale smiled smugly to himself, wincing, as he stood up swiftly. He wobbled only a little and was rather pleased about it.

“Angel!” Crowley said, devastation clear in his eyes and the downturn of his mouth which hung open in shock and betrayal.

“Demon.” Aziraphale murmured back, smile softening into something a bit fonder and a whole lot more teasing. Crowley glared up half-heartedly and kicked the blanket off before standing up swiftly, hand outstretched and finger pointed up at Aziraphale’s face. The angel only smiled, eyes half-closed and absolutely pleased as punch. He always enjoyed riling Crowley up, the demon always had the most delightful reactions.

Seeing that, Crowley narrowed his eyes and let his hand drop instead of accusing Aziraphale of being a bastard. Verbally, at least. [14] He leaned back, shifting on his heels, and a slow grin crept across his face.

“Alright then, Angel. Why don’t you sit? I’ll make tea.” Crowley slumped his shoulders and shoved his hands into his pockets, pulling on a blasé affectation, before taking a few slinking steps past Aziraphale.

“Now, dear, I said that _I_ would be the one to prepare—” Aziraphale stopped mid-sentence as Crowley suddenly turned his slink into a sprint, taking a precarious turn fast enough that he hit the opposite wall with a hollow _thunk_ and continued into the kitchen. [15]

“Now _really_ ,” Aziraphale huffed and, while an angel doesn’t run, he might just power-walk if he had to catch up to a demon to thwart some wiles. He was caught up momentarily, Crowley in the doorway to the kitchenette hidden behind the back room in the bookshop—and neither the backroom nor the kitchenette ought to have fit but Aziraphale had always expected something like that to be there, or perhaps it had been Crowley, and so it was and even helpfully updated itself to new appliances that were half a century out of date—and Aziraphale nearly crashed into him, stopping at the last moment.

* * *

[14] It was, however, written across his face and didn’t need to be said aloud. Aziraphale knew very well what Crowley was thinking and reveled in it. Crowley, of course, only vaguely regretted admitting to Aziraphale that the bastardry made him worth liking, but he was high off a recently averted Apocalypse and should be forgiven for the slip-up.

[15] This was not unlike a housecat, who are known to be demons as well, to catch a temporary ailment that is colloquially called The Zoomies, and dash through the halls at a speed great enough they achieve drift. Not all the corners taken with said drift capability is done particularly well, but they recover rather quickly upon impact. And so did Crowley.

* * *

“Crowley?” Aziraphale poked at the demon’s shoulder, eyes squinting. Crowley groaned loudly and doubled over, holding his head in his hands.

“I’m dying, angel. My head’s ripping apart.” He moaned pitifully. 

“Then sit. _I’ll_ make you coffee.” Aziraphale stepped around Crowley’s hunched form, hands firm and warm on his shoulders, much kinder this time. 

“Nonono!” Crowley cried, wincing in tandem with Aziraphale as their heads throbbed once more in punishment for last night’s overindulgence. “ _I’ll_ make you _tea_ angel.” He asserted, wobbily standing up, with shoulders still hunched, and slinking slowly and carefully into the kitchenette. He gingerly picked his way across the small room, Aziraphale following close after and attempting to herd him towards the small breakfast nook—which also shouldn’t have been able to fit nor receive any sunlight perfect for reading by, considering the other buildings situated around the shop but knew better than to be even remotely dark

Their three-step around the kitchen was a well-practiced dance, one of closeness and learned through the ages. They taught themselves and each other at the end of swords and that ineffable distance that was all at once an unbreachable gulf and only centimetres of space between them. They’d crossed it, without knowing how those bridges had been built, constructed solidly from familiarity and friendship that had never meant to happen and they were free to be caught up in each other from hairsbreadth and miles away one and the same. One step forward, a half-step back, feint to the side, lean in enough to follow the feint, turn on a heel around the opposite arm, catch fingertips into a sleeve to pull the other back into orbit, and repeat.

And then Crowley hip-checked the stove and nearly dove face-first to the floor, prompting Aziraphale to lunge and catch him. This, of course, was a terrible decision and Aziraphale immediately regretted it. Crowley could fend for himself. (Even thinking that Aziraphale wouldn’t drop Crowley, but did set him gently on the ground by the back of his rumpled, silk shirt, and Aziraphale covered his own face with his arm.)

There was a single ray of perfect, golden morning light breaking through the window up near the ceiling of the kitchenette. Crowley had led the dance away from it as much as possible, not wanting to deal with the sharpness of light with that hangover headache of his, but, unfortunately, Azirphale hadn’t been paying nearly enough attention to his surroundings, not when he was somewhere so safe as with Crowley. Not when he knew no one else would be able to enter this domain of his, guarded by his spells and wards for so many years from everyone but his dearest adversary.

Aziraphale made a small moue of disapproval at the state of the world at large. “ _The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness._ ” He recited solemnly and then scowled a pout, “What a terrible, uncouth ray of light!”

Crowley, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees from the floor, grumbled back, “‘S a bastard. Just like your halo.”

Aziraphale gasped and would have clutched at pearls if he had either had any strung around his neck or he had been from the South of the United States rather than of England. “How very rude, Crowley. How _dare_ you think my halo is anything so discourteous!” He harrumphed and placed his hands on his hips in outrage before immediately regretting it.

He snapped his fingers sharply in his irritation and a curtain appeared over the window, softening the light and diffusing it so the kitchenette itself was warmly aglow but in no way that might cause a headache to worsen. He did, unfortunately, forget that he could have simply done away with the headache in the first place. [16]

Crowley stood up and sparked the old stove to life with a quiet but triumphant _ha!_ , and its gas burners groaned a bit before flaring up merrily around the old, cast-iron kettle that doubled as a teapot. It was filled with water at nearly all times and never rusted, mostly because Aziraphale thought that would be rather rude of it to do so and Crowley never thought it should. 

From a cupboard over Crowley’s head, Aziraphale pulled an elaborate looking syphon coffee brewer that lived simultaneously in Azirpahale’s cabinets and in Crowley’s flat on the counter. It was far too modern to keep here, of course, for all that it looked like an old chemistry or alchemy set up. It wasn’t new technology at all, dating back to the early 1830s, but it _had_ seen a resurgence in popular trends recently and so Aziraphale had to hold to the idea that it was far too modern on principle.

“Tu es charmant, mon ange.” Crowley sneered, his tone sounding like he'd just smelled something terrible.[17] 

Aziraphale groaned, "Crowley! This isn’t even a French press!" 

“Quoi, tu n'aime pas que je sois gentil?” Crowley laughed, smiling like a knife and arms akimbo, smug as a cat with both the canary and the cream. Aziraphale wasn’t the only one who could press buttons.

“And here I thought we were past such,” Aziraphale paused and searched for the word before landing unceremoniously on, “Unpleasantries.”

“Tu aurait dû penser en premier!”[18] Crowley continued, his smile widening into a grin as he set about bitching a proper pot of tea,[19] waiting only for the kettle to heat the water enough. Crowley, of course, had a preternatural sense for heat and saw infrared overlay as he liked, and so only had to memorize the color of the pot at different temperatures to know when it was done. 

* * *

[16] Though to be perfectly fair to him, so did Crowley.

[17] Aziraphale, while he knew the basics of French, disliked when Crowley used it and had specifically refrained from learning it to any degree greater than stutteringly conversational out of sheer stubbornness, was still upset at Crowley for Babel. He'd dogged Aziraphale for nearly a decade, only speaking to him in the new language he'd been struck with despite having full ability to switch to something less phlegmy at any point.

[18] In order, Crowley said to Aziraphale: “You are lovely, my angel.” “What, you don’t like that I’m being nice?” and “You should have thought about that first!” These were all, of course, in French and annoyed Aziraphale greatly. As they were meant to.

[19] Aziraphale had a propensity towards using hilariously unfortunate and highly outdated Victorian (and earlier) slang. The more obscure the better and even then he used it incorrectly sometimes. He had, for some reason, taken to calling Crowley a Duke of Limbs despite his shorter stature, citing his gangly form and the high likelihood that at any given time he could be found sprawled out on the floor, top of a bookshelf, or chair improperly. Crowley thought it was hilarious and cracked up every time he heard Aziraphale use a word that even sounded like a curse, which was why Aziraphale continued to do so. 

* * *

Aziraphale sighed disapprovingly in Crowley’s general direction at the continued assault in French, but smiled to himself privately for surreptitiously preparing the coffee grounds and Crowley’s favorite cup—a silly thing made from porcelain that had a little frog on a lily pad near the top of the cup so it looked as if it rests atop the liquid and another frog sleeping on the bottom to appear as one drained it of drink—to be ready except for the water. He paused for a moment and snapped his fingers, filling the empty vacuum chamber with mountain water and lit the candle under it to heat. Very good, now he didn’t have to wait for the kettle at all!

“Angel!” Crowley hissed, “Sit, sit!” He waved his hands at Aziraphale towards the table and pursed his lips in feigned annoyance. Well, mostly feigned, he _had_ wanted to let Aziraphale relax and deal with his own hangover rather than making him coffee of all things. 

“I shan’t, and you can’t make me.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, bemused. Crowley only stuck out his tongue, waggling the forked thing in a way that might have been menacing from a titanoboa but as a human only looked a bit funny. The space between them quieted and they both relaxed a little, smiling small smiles.[20] 

* * *

[20] Their joy [20.1] was soft soil, the kind that gave life to the vibrant happinesses and contentments of life as they came. It was a steady thing made of love and trust and build-up, sturdy foundations that allowed these hereditary enemies to coexist peacefully and, yea even more than that, happily. 

[20.1] Joy, by definition, is a feeling of great pleasure or happiness and happiness was a state of feeling or showing pleasure or contentment. Though they seem to be similar or even the same on the surface, some byproduct of emotional pleasure, Aziraphale and Crowley tended towards a slightly more biblical version of joy, which had a certain sort of everlastingness to it. Joy was the still waters which restored the soul and the rock-foundation upon which to build, and the happinesses that came and grew from it like annual flowers in the spring may be passing and fleeting, for all that one might take pleasure from them, the joy they came from would remain steady and unwavering. Joy, as it were, was synonymous with love, where the two of them decided to concern themselves.

* * *

As one they moved again, Crowley to the small fridge in the corner that wasn’t ever quite there, taking up space until one thought of it again, and pulled out eggs, butter, and bread while Aziraphale stooped to bring out a cast iron pan to match the kettle on the stove and set toasting cages by the stove as well. 

“I could, just have to get a human to pray it nicely,” Crowley said with a dismissive _snrk_ noise in the back of his mouth and stuck his forked tongue out at the angel, sidling up against his front and looking far too pleased to be a demon surrounded by a holy avenger of the Lord.

“Oh good _Lord_ , Crowley, really,” said angel snapped back, though he made no move to step away, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “You’ve got no concept of personal space!”

“I have no concept, angel?” Crowley raises an eyebrow and looks up over his shoulder to make eye contact with Aziraphale, leaning his weight into the plush angel and relaxing happily between his arms. Pleased to be both in the way and surrounded by comfort. 

Aziraphale only sighed and rolled his eyes carefully away from Crowley’s gaze, who might accuse him of being _dramatic_ of all things, and hid a smile behind a half-hearted scowl. “Yes, no concept at all of any sort of politeness, my dear.” Aziraphale reached towards the bread Crowley had set out and pulled 3 slices from the loaf.

Crowley, while making a proper nuisance of himself, was also making eggs. Aziraphale, in the way of people who are used to working around obstacles, simply placed the bread into the cage, reached around Crowley to turn on a second burner, and set about toasting it. 

“Should I remind you, angel, which one of us routinely gives bobbies writing tickets burnt ticketbooks?” Crowley drawled, absorbed in keeping his glare, magnified by the pain in his head, on the eggs. They wouldn’t dare burn or turn rubbery, no matter how poorly Crowley kept an eye on their doneness for fear of disappointing a literal, actual angel. Or rather, for fear of Crowley disappointing said angel with them.

“Oh hush, if I hadn’t done it you would and there would be a soot spot left on the curb, I’m sure.” Aziraphale sniffed imperiously, even though they both knew it wasn’t true, they still play-acted at prodding and poking at each other for their natures. It was unlikely they’d ever stop, habits ingrained over the course of millennia do not swiftly change course. While Crowley _could_ do such things, he tended to prefer any option that would cause outright mischief rather than grief and likely wouldn’t.

Still playfully bickering Crowley shoveled the finished eggs onto two plates, lined them with cut and buttered toast [42] and expected strawberry preserves to meet them at the table as Aziraphale gathered up the pot of tea, Crowley’s coffee, and expected the teacup and saucer along with the sugar and milk to be waiting for them. And, since there was no question about either of these things happening, they did. 

* * *

[42] Both Crowley and Aziraphale refused to eat toast unless it was cut into quarters. They didn’t know why, but it tasted better. Aziraphale thought it might have to do with having two pieces cut into fours and some approximation of the number 42, which was the answer to life, the universe, and everything delicious.

* * *

An angel and a demon sat together at a table, side by side rather than across from it, and picked bits and pieces off each other's plates, ribbing at one another with gentle smiles and fondness in their eyes. The light diffused through new curtains caught the dust motes of the book shop and shone through Aziraphale’s hair, causing his downy hair to glow like a halo. Crowley certainly didn’t mind it, glancing to meet his angel’s eyes with a brightness in his own that reflected the light. Aziraphale loved it when they did that. It felt like looking through a crack in the universe to see through to the other side.

Simultaneously they reached for their drinks and sighed happily at tea, and coffee, made exactly to preference. Bitter and sweet, respectively. They paused in unison and turned to meet the other's gaze, small, joyous grins twitching to life on their faces.

“Coffee, angel?” Crowley’s grin turned wide and wicked, his slit pupils an endlessly dark contrast against the shining gold of his eyes and brimming with all the extraordinary, soft feelings demons ought not have.

“Tea, demon?” Aziraphale replied back, his love bright in his eyes and in the softness of his smile. Angels, of course, weren’t meant to be so soft either, they were meant to be fiery warriors of the Almighty and their Love just as terrible as it was Good. But between them, they liked soft and soft worked for them well indeed.

Soft saved the world after all, and there was no need for any great and terrible, Almighty Love when they had all the tiny worlds humans had their heads full of every day, lowercase love to tie them together. 

Crowley shifted his plate over, just a little, and in the same motion stole a corner of toast Aziraphale had taken a bite out of already. Aziraphale pretended not to notice.

They drank their coffee and tea and spoke in whispers and not even the light from the window thought to disturb them again. And all was right and good in their small, little world in the back of a bookshop in Soho.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr here!](https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Daffodalia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23609473) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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